


Deal out Jacks or better

by vaguely_concerned



Series: Scoundrels and Thieves 'verse [3]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, young mchanzo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-07
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-08-07 06:08:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7703476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaguely_concerned/pseuds/vaguely_concerned
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>McCree has a very bad day. Set two years after they meet for the first time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deal out Jacks or better

When McCree turned up at the diner he was five hours late, and his face looked like it had been through some terrible industrial accident. He had an impressively black eye, multiple cuts and bruises, and a split lip that must have only recently stopped bleeding. Ignoring the stares and whispers of the other diners he walked over and slid down to sit next to Hanzo in the booth.

“Hey there,” he said. Hanzo picked up the telltale scent of booze on him. “Long time no see.”

“...hello,” Hanzo said. McCree put his hat down on the table and ran a hand through his hair. His movements were unusually stiff.

“Sorry I’m late, something came up. Well, lots of things came up. All at once. Like a perfect shitstorm of matryoshka doll screwups.”

“I was about to leave,” Hanzo said, because it was nearing closing time and the only other people in the room were hollow faced truckers eating greasy meals and slurping bad coffee. “It was good I did not, it seems.”

McCree hummed agreement and did not quite meet his gaze. His usual stoic expression sat uneasily on his features, the whip crack of a smile not reaching his eyes. Hanzo had gotten used to McCree's genuine smile by now; seeing that hollow facsimile of it again was oddly disturbing.

Hanzo didn’t know what to say. “I tried to call you.”

“Yeah, sorry about that too. My phone shuffled off this mortal coil somewhere along the way. It’s probably lyin' in pieces in some ditch out there.”

A sign on the table read ‘No smoking allowed’. McCree turned it face down and fished out a packet of smokes from an inner pocket, rolling a cigarette with practiced movements. A waitress gave them a sideways glare but seemed to decide that admonishing the man with still-bloody knuckles was not worth it for her meager salary. Not surprising - with the stubble and the bruises and the split lip McCree looked a lot more menacing than Hanzo knew him to be. A little dodgy, perhaps, but he usually tried talking before punching his way out. Usually. (He had _spurs_ on his _boots_. No one who was truly sinister thought styling themselves after old Western film heroes was a good idea.)

“Guess we’re not getting the menu any time soon,” McCree mumbled. “Shame. I could use a coffee.”

Hanzo could sense the exhaustion radiating from him like lead in his own bones, and his face was grey and drawn. In the two years they’d known each other he’d never seen him like this. “Are you… well?”

“Right as rain,” McCree lied expansively. He slid down in his seat until his head was practically level with the tabletop. He lit the cigarette - his hands were shaking. “What was it we were gonna discuss again?  Not to be flaky or anythin', I’ve just had a lot on my mind recently.”

Now that McCree was here, Hanzo could admit to himself that he had been looking forward to meeting him again – to his drawling voice and quick grins and laconic comments – but he didn’t feel the normal swell of lowkey amusement this time, just a shiver of unease at the edge of his perception. He looked shabby, weighed down, like someone who had been on the road for too long. The thin, pale lights of the diner were not helping.

McCree took a pull on the cigarette - and then sat up to bend double under the racking cough that immediately followed. Keening slightly in pain he clutched at his chest, curling up on himself as he coughed. Hanzo put a hand on his shoulder to steady him, his brows knitting together.

“That does not sound good.”

“You’ll be surprised to hear it doesn’t feel amazing either,” McCree rasped, mournfully putting out the cigarette on the metal condiments tray.

“What happened?” Hanzo demanded, and McCree started to answer but was overcome by another wave of scraping hacks. He ended up just shaking his head.

Hanzo was surprised at his own reaction - a stab of fear that seemed to go straight for his heart. McCree was getting impossibly more ashen, dark circles under his eyes.

“You should see a doctor,” Hanzo said.

McCree waved him off, still wheezing. “Nah, it’s just a few broken ribs and a concussion. A job that went bad. Nothin' new.”

Hanzo raised an eyebrow until he felt it nearing his hairline. “A concussion?”

“A tiny one,” McCree spectacularly failed to reassure him. “Didn’t even black out this time.”

’This time’. How heartening. “If you are concussed you should _not_ be drinking.”

“What are you, my mom?” McCree mumbled, but he looked away with a certain shamefaced air. After a while he covered his face with his hand. “...I’m such a fucking idiot. I should’ve known better; I should’ve seen this one coming. It reeked of a setup from miles away. If I’d just _thought_ for half a damn second, none of this would have...”

There was something woefully unguarded in his tone, something Hanzo had never heard before. He repeated, more careful this time: “What happened?”

McCree shook his ducked head. “Too much to explain. And I prefer stories that end with people ridin' off into the sunset, not… whatever bullshit this turned into.”

“...there will be other sunsets.”

McCree let out a sound that might have been a laugh, might have been half a sob, might have been something inbetween. Hanzo slid his hand from McCree’s shoulder to the back of his neck. His brown hair was damp from the cold sweat. “Are you sure you will not let me take you to a doctor.”

“I’m fine,” McCree insisted, voice thick. “Just peachy.”

Oh well, then. A different strategy would be needed. Hanzo drummed his fingers against McCree’s neck. “Have you checked into a hotel yet?”

McCree rubbed at his eye with the palm of his hand, then gritted his teeth and made an annoyed grunt when he realized it was the bad eye. “No. Came straight here, since I was already runnin’ late. Why?”

“Then if you will not see a doctor, I insist you stay in my room so I can keep an eye on you. I will wake you every now and then to check that – well. That you have not sustained actual brain damage.”

McCree’s eyes widened - at least one of his eyes did, the other stayed swollen mostly shut. “Uh… wow. Did not see that one coming.”

“I insist,” Hanzo repeated, because he was not squirming out of this. “Our negotiations can wait until you are able to put two coherent thoughts together again.”

He got a snort. ”If you’re holding out for _that_ you’ll be waiting a long time.”

”Well. Within reason. I choose to live in hope.”

“Don’t your family expect you back?”

Hanzo stared at him flatly. “I do possess a phone.”

“...right. Right.” McCree looked down at his hands. ”I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m such a mess, I didn’t mean to make you -”

”No. Don’t.” Hanzo rubbed McCree’s shoulder.

McCree glanced up at him, lost and uncertain – almost like he was expecting to be berated.

”I will carry you, if I have to,” Hanzo clarified, even though McCree was about his own weight and a little taller. Well, if he put his mind to it he could manage it. The brittleness of McCree’s expression eased a little, softened by a shaky smile.  

”Guess I bettter come along willingly, then. At least I’ll be saving on gas.”

Hanzo glared, something alarming suddenly occurring to him. ”You _drove_ here?”

“Yeah. Stole a car. My vision only goes double every ten minutes or so, it was fine. The bourbon helped. I wanted to see you,” he added, then paused for a long time. “I feel really drunk. Just... pretend I didn’t say that.”

Hanzo sighed. “Very well. Now come with me.”

“Yessir.” But even the sarcasm seemed half-hearted, and he picked up his hat and followed Hanzo out to the car.

 

\-------

 

“How’s your brother?” McCree asked, his head tipped back against the headrest.

It started to rain, heavy droplets puddling against the windshield. Hanzo turned the wipers on. “I have no idea.”

McCree turned his face and watched him for a long time, but Hanzo kept his eyes on the road. They didn’t say anything more.

 

\-------

 

When they got to the hotel Hanzo all but shepherded McCree over to the bed and made him lie down.

“Where’re you gonna sleep?” McCree asked, blinking owlishly.

Hanzo decided to lie. “The armchair is perfectly comfortable.” It was not: if a medieval warlord had not had a torture rack at hand, he could easily have turned to that chair as the next best thing. He filled a glass of water and set it down on the nightstand, then found some painkillers and handed them over.

“...if you say so,” McCree said after taking them, seemingly too tattered to argue. He moved his head back and forth on the pillow, staring at the ceiling. “Why are you doing this?”

Hanzo’s mind stuttered to a halt. “Because none of the other Deadlock gang members have your good looks and charm,” he said, to buy time. “I would hate to be forced to do business with them.”

McCree laughed, a low rumble of a noise that finally sounded right. Hanzo relaxed and added: ”Hubert especially. He keeps asking me to do ’some cool ninja tricks’ whenever he sees me.”

 ”Oh god,” McCree said, putting his hand over his eyes. ”I’m so sorry. Why do they all have to be walking talking embarrassments.”

”I rather like Hubert, actually. He is very... earnest. Not really trade partner material, though.”

McCree made a pained sound, but at least it was caused by exasperation this time and not the bruises or broken ribs. Hanzo picked up McCree’s hand and removed it from his face, pushing his hair out of the way to get a better view.

“Look at me,” he said, keeping McCree’s face steady with a hand on his cheek and studying his pupils. They seemed fine, no uneven dilation. Good. McCree’s eyes were a warm brown, and he didn’t look away. Hanzo cleared his throat and pulled back.

He was about to step away from the side of the bed, but McCree reached out to curl his fingers into Hanzo’s shirt. “Hang on,” he said,

Hanzo glanced down at McCree’s hand - the knuckles were still abraded and raw. “What is it?”

“It’s good to see you again,” McCree mumbled, looking at him woozily and, for once, very seriously. “I missed you. Don’t know if that’s kinda dumb, you being the only person I wanted to go to. But you were.”

“I…” Hanzo had no idea what to say to that. He gently brushed Jesse’s hair away from his forehead. Jesse closed his eyes and leaned into the touch, sighing.

“I fucked up today,” he said. “Big time.”

“Well, obviously,” Hanzo said dryly. “You decided to completely ignore the fact that you might be brain damaged. More than you already were, that is, since you seemed to think that was a good idea.”

Jesse chuckled, a noise that scratched its way out of his throat. His shirt wasn’t buttoned up all the way, granting a peek of dark chest hair. “That’s one hell of a bedside manner you’ve got there.”

“It is only the truth.”

“Call ’em as you see ’em. Gotcha.” He paused, and when he spoke again his voice was much smaller. “People died because I messed up.”

Hanzo sat down on the edge of the bed, leaning his elbows on his knees. “People will die no matter what you do.”

“I should’ve been smarter about it.”

“There is no outwitting death.” His mother had died, and there was nothing even his father could do to stop that. “It is what you might call its defining quality.”

“...yeah.”

He sounded too tired for being so young.

“You should sleep.”

“Probably. I… thank you.”

“It is nothing.”

He smiled sleepily, brushing the backs of his fingers against Hanzo’s hip. “Well, thanks anyway. That’s a lot of nothin’ you’re doing.”

”You can pay me back by just staying safe for a while. How does that sound.”

”You really do have high hopes for me.”

Hanzo blew out a weary breath. McCree had a few splatters of blood on his shirt, and Hanzo didn’t think it was his own. ”I suppose I do.”

They had once been stuck in an airport together a whole night because of an unexpected snowstorm. McCree had been up most of the night while Hanzo dozed uneasily on the hard bench, and when he’d woken up again McCree had been whistling under his breath and watching some movie with horses and Stetsons and dramatic duels at dawn.

It was no wonder he’d rather live in there, if this was what happened when the mask cracked.  

McCree reached out so that he could twist his fingers back into Hanzo’s shirt, eyes drifting shut, and after a while he started snoring quietly. Once he was sure McCree was not going to surface again any time soon, Hanzo extricated himself as gently as he knew how – McCree’s hands were still surprisingly warm, his fingers slack and unprotesting now.

Looking at McCree lying there, his face soft and open with sleep, Hanzo wished he’d never learned the expression ’he’ll die with his boots on’.

He got up and tried to get comfortable in the armchair, which seemed designed to bend your back into a position as unnatural as possible.  

He hadn’t seen Genji for weeks - his brother had not been home for a long time, probably out doing a lot of things he should not be doing. The whole family was very pointedly not talking about it. Hanzo found himself suddenly wishing he could speak with him. He reached out for his phone and weighed it in his hand - but it was pointless. Genji usually didn’t pick up when he got like this, especially not when he saw Hanzo’s number. He put the phone down again.

McCree slept and Hanzo sat in the dim glow of the street lights outside the window, as far away from his home as it was conceivably possible to be, trying to think of nothing in particular the whole night through.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Tom Waits’ ‘Tango Till They’re Sore’.
> 
> I’m assuming that Hanzo and Genji’s mother is dead simply because I feel she would have, you know, been brought up if she was alive when the whole... thing that happened happened.  
> Oh and if you ever do actually black out after hitting your head, go see a doctor immediately. Also don’t then drink bourbon or drive anywhere. Don’t be like Jesse ’Clint Squint’ McCree, he makes terrible life choices.


End file.
